A Glimpse of Home
by Muffy Morrigan
Summary: When Sam is caught in a downward spiral of despair, one thing might bring him back from the brink of destruction. Dean is still looking out for his little brother. Missing scene/tag to Mystery Spot. One-Shot. Complete.


_A/N: Two years ago (July 18), I posted my first story. I wanted to celebrate the anniversary with a story and here it is. I have been playing with this idea for a long time, since the episode first aired and the idea has gone through several changes before it settled on this. (In fact, I was toying with it for my one year anniversary.) I plan on having a chapter of Gifts up very, very soon, don't worry! I wish I could give you all a hug, you've helped me through a really rough time. I have found so many loving friends here, I would try and name you all, but, that would make a long, long list! So, let me send a hug to you all now, a huge Sam to Dean, Dean to Sam kinda hug. Thanks to TraSan (who actually threatened me if I didn't post this) Abni, Merisha and Dennis. Title is from the song by Kansas._

_A/N II: This is a missing scene/tag for Mystery Spot, so spoilers for that one. _

**A Glimpse of Home**

There was nothing stretching for miles in front of him. Miles and miles, possibly the entire earth, empty of everything—traffic, cities, life itself all gone. Just the road, the silent passage of the miles and the Impala's rumbling engine. There was nothing else, there never would be again.

Dean was dead.

Gone.

Taken with a sudden finality that still stunned Sam, left him without feeling, without emotion.

Without anything.

After all the deaths, after all the mornings waking with Dean, starting the cycle over, it was all gone. Wednesday came and Dean was dead. In an instant, unexpected, unplanned, just gone.

Taken.

And that was all, it was the end of Sam as well, or it felt that way. He remembered, vaguely, the moments after Dean died, knowing he was gone, frantically searching for a pulse, but finding nothing. There was a memory of a call to Bobby, of digging a hole, wrapping Dean's body in the old woolen Army blanket that had been in the trunk since he was a child and then carefully lowering Dean into the hole, filling it. He remembered dropping onto the ground, on top the grave and watching the sun set.

He hadn't cried.

After the first tears as Dean had died in his arms, there had been no more. Nothing. He wanted to, felt the ache in his chest, so tight he could hardly breathe, but the tears wouldn't come. His eyes were dry, a lump in his throat and something pounding in his head that felt like a migraine, like the headaches after a vision, but still no tears. Sam wasn't sure why there was nothing, Dean had teased him his whole life about the tendency to something like tears, and now that his brother was gone, dead, taken, there was nothing, The grief was so huge there was no way to express it.

He wanted to die, just lie there on top the cold earth and stop breathing. Just let his heart stop, he even asked for it, somewhere in the back of his mind, but death refused to come to him. It stood in the wings, laughing at him, mocking him. Dean's year was up before it should have been, he was in hell, and Sam was trapped, unable to join him, unable to do anything.

He'd stayed there, sitting vigil over his brother's grave until the small creatures of the night had come and gone, until he was sure the grave would remain undisturbed, then he dragged himself up and stumbled to the Impala.

He would continue, he would hunt and if he was very lucky, he would be killed on the hunt.

Nine days.

Nine days had passed since that Wednesday.

He was hunting something that was killing people outside a small town, hunting something that was taking people from their families. He'd caught up with it, only it had been more than he was planning on and he was wounded. The blood cooled on his skin as he drove through miles of nothingness to reach his room. When he arrived, Sam staggered to the room, barely able to go on, welcoming it, at least it was an honorable death. Dean had been denied that.

He fell on the bed, a small voice in his head, a voice that sounded like his brother, told him to get his sorry ass off the bed and get the first aid kit. As always, he obeyed the voice and grabbed his bag digging through it for the kit. It wasn't there. Sam glanced around, trying to remember when he'd seen it last. Dean's bag, it had to be in Dean's bag, he'd handed it to his brother to pack away a couple days before... Sam swallowed the lump that was always there, making it hard to breathe, making it impossible to eat. He idly wondered how long it'd been since he'd eaten more than three bites of food at a time. Years, maybe.

As he walked back to the car, his phone started ringing. He didn't need to look at the caller ID to know who was there. Bobby, for the fourth time that day and the thousandth time in a week, since that first call, Sam hadn't answered, just listened to the older hunter's messages. The phone stopped and started the beeping for the message. Sam dialed voicemail as he pulled Dean's bag from the trunk.

"It would be nice to know if you were alive, Sam. At least let me know that much." Bobby's voice was gruff, harsh with emotion.

That was fair, Bobby did deserve to know. Sam hit speed dial, Bobby answered halfway through the first ring. "Sam! I..."

"I'm alive." He hung up the phone.

Sam stared at Dean's bag for a full minute before unzipping it. It felt weird, opening it without Dean there. He sighed and fished around looking for the kit. He hand came into contact with something, Sam pulled it out.

A journal.

Not their father's, John's was in Sam's bag, he'd had it the night before. Sam set it on the bedside table and continued the search for the first aid kit. He finally found it, hard to believe something could get lost in a duffel bag. He put it on the bed and opened it, getting out the supplies he needed, wondering why he was even bothering. The pain had come and gone, he didn't know if that was good or bad. He'd lost a lot of blood, the symptoms exacerbated by the days with very little food.

Sam patched himself up and leaned back on the bed, the last of a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He stared at the ceiling for a long time, then noticed the journal again. It was there, in his peripheral vision, and once he acknowledged its presence he couldn't ignore it. Finally, he reached over and picked it up. It looked a lot like their father's from the outside.

With a deep breath, Sam opened it.

Pictures were tucked in the front. Their mother, their father, one of Sam when he was a child. He glanced at the first page. It was written in Dean's childhood scrawl, letters carefully formed, but nearly unreadable. He smiled remembering Dean's "Yeah, I know it's hard to read, but it looks _cool," _when Sam had pointed out it was illegible. Sam managed to decipher what was there.

"Werewolves, silver bullets." Written five times. "Ghosts, salt and burn." Also written five times.

Sam turned the page.

"Clean wounds with alcohol. Check for shock. Don't move someone unless you are sure nothing is broken. Wash wounds made by supernatural creatures with holy water." There were more notes on first aid. Sam took a swig of whiskey and turned the page. The whole page was filled with a diagram of... Sam turned the book sideways, trying to figure it out. He wasn't sure. Three more pages of diagrams, notes on creatures and first aid, just like their father's. _Figures. _The thought was bitter.

He took another drink, wondering what would happen if he mixed the painkillers in the kit with the whiskey. Wondering if that act would get him a ticket to hell. If he did end up in hell, would he find Dean?

It was all too much, just too damn much. There was nothing left, and nothing that would end the pain. Nothing that would stop the ache in his chest or clear the lump in his throat. If he died would it end?

As he flipped through the pages, mostly without seeing them, his eyes just catching a rough sketch just here and there of a creature or something, a sudden anger filled him. _The journal didn't do you any good, did it, Dean? All this work, and nothing. _He snapped it closed and threw it away from him, he watched it hit the wall, opening as it did, several items falling out of the book as it fell. Sam started to push himself up, regretting the act, but the combination of alcohol, lack of food and blood loss was too much, he dropped back onto the bed with a groan and the world faded to black.

The pounding of a bass, beating in time with the throbbing of his head woke Sam. "Turn it down," he muttered to his brother before realization hit him. It wasn't Dean, it would never be Dean again. The sound moved away, growing fainting with each passing moment, his headache increased until it felt like his brain was swelling against his skull. He rolled over, waiting as a wave of nausea flowed over him, then pushed himself up, judging the distance between the bed and the bathroom, trying to figure out how much effort it would take to get there. _Too much. _Fever was beginning to burn through his body, the wounds already infected overnight.

The journal caught his eye again. He tried to ignore it and the pieces of paper that had fallen out of it, the anger still simmering, blending with the pain in his chest. But he knew he couldn't leave it there, he just couldn't. With a deep breath, he stood and staggered over to where the book had fallen. He picked it up and started gathering up the scattered pieces of paper. Each time he bent over it took a little longer to straighten. _I'm in bad shape. Good. Should I let Bobby know so he can collect the body? _As he picked up the last one, he realized his vision was blurry, his hands trembling. He tucked the small brown square into the book and turned to the bed, just making it before he fell. With a groan, he pulled his legs onto the mattress and let it all drop away.

There was a heavy weight on his hand as he woke. At first he thought it was Dean there, holding his hand, the way he did when he was worried and then pretended he hadn't been when Sam opened his eyes. This time when the thought of _no Dean, never again _crept in, it felt like a physical blow. He managed to get one eye open, peering at his hand, trying to figure out what was there—it was the journal, still clutched in his hand. Sam looked at it for a moment, then closed his eyes again.

Pain, white hot pain, pulsing through his body pulled him to consciousness again. His brain made the distinction between waking from sleep and this return to consciousness—this was serious, he was dangerously ill and he knew it. There was a throbbing in his wounds that he knew was bad, maybe even worse than bad, maybe even fatally bad. He opened his eyes and blinked at his cell phone on the stand beside the bed. Should he call Bobby? Probably, but should he do it now, or when he was sure it was too late? The older hunter would never forgive him if he waited until he was so bad he'd be dead before Bobby could arrive, but did things like that even matter when you were dead? He doubted it. More importantly, he didn't care. He could sense Death lurking at the end of the bed, poised to take him and all he could wanted was for it to strike, rending apart body and soul and letting him go.

His phone started ringing, buzzing impatiently along the nightstand, until its vibrations carried it over the edge and onto the floor. He shifted on the bed, moving to grab it from where it had fallen. The caller ID showing "Bobby" and the older man's picture. Sam picked it up and laid there, phone in hand, wondering if he should answer. It stop ringing. _Okay, maybe call him back and say "I'm dying"? _He stared at it for a long time, the room swimming around him before the awareness of a new pain in his chest worked its way to a prominent place in his brain. Tightening his hand around the phone, he rolled over to get a look at what was causing the ache.

The journal.

He'd been laying on Dean's journal, and for some reason that hurt, like he'd forgotten his brother and just crushed him beneath uncaring feet. The ever-present lump in his throat got bigger, nearly cutting off his breathing. No tears, just that ache in his throat that nearly gagged him. He carefully picked up the book and opened it to where he had carelessly stuff the papers back in, thinking he should match paper to the page it was with before he died, leaving this small part of Dean intact. _Yes. _He was suddenly obsessed with the idea, he had to fix it before he was gone. He had to!

With a deep breath, he pushed himself into a sitting position and leaned against the headboard. He pulled all the papers out and set them on the bed, then opened the book and put it on his legs. He picked up the first one, a sheet of paper, folded in thirds, the paper a heavy, good quality stationary, at some time it had been torn to pieces, crumpled, then smoothed out and put back together. Each tiny piece had been carefully taped back into place. Sam's hands started shaking, he knew what it was before he even opened it. He thought it had been lost the night he'd torn it to bits and thrown it in his father's face.

His acceptance letter to Stanford.

His brother must have picked it up after Sam had stormed out—with his father right behind him. They had continued their shouting match in the parking lot until Dean had come out and pushed them apart, sending Sam back to the room and John to cool off at the bar up the street. Sam ran his hand over the letter, it must have taken Dean hours to put it back together.

There was a similar piece of paper still in the pile. Sam slid it out and opened it, something dropped out of it. He wasn't surprised to see the Stanford insignia at the top of the page, what it said was a surprise: "Stanford University Dean's List, Spring 2005", towards the bottom of the page "Samuel Winchester" was among the names. How had his brother gotten a hold of it? The one copy Sam had seen had been in a locked glass case in the history department. He picked up the thing that had fallen out—a picture of Sam with a group from his geology class on a field trip to the San Andreas Fault. That had been posted outside the geo labs—and had gone missing. Sam carefully folded the picture back in the paper and picked up the next piece.

It was a newspaper clipping, yellowed, the headline read "Two bodies found, three local children missing." Sam blinked, focusing on the paper, his fever was climbing. "Police today confirmed the two bodies found yesterday were those of two children missing since Thursday. Three children are still missing and presumed dead, said Sgt. Dan Hopkins. Police are continuing the search, but plan to call it off late in the day on Monday. The children still missing, Shawn Pierce, Kevin Diggs and Sam Winchester are all twelve years old. Police suspect a serial killer." Sam stared at the paper. He dug through the pile. He found two more clippings. "Police Find Third Body" then "Another Body Found, Police Call Off Search". After going through the stack of papers again, Sam found another clipping from the same newspaper. "Last Child Found Alive" the headline read. "Police announced Sam Winchester, missing since July 5, was found alive today. The child was rushed to St. Mary's Hospital and is in critical condition. Officials are crediting the boy's brother with the rescue. The family has declined comment."

Sam paused as he remembered those terrifying days. He flipped through Dean's journal to find where the clippings went. The entries were sporadic, mostly descriptions of creatures and notes on where they were found until July 5, the date of the first newspaper clipping. There were only two words on an entire page of the journal, _"Sammy's gone." _

The next page was dated July 8. _"They found two of the kids today. Dad's right it is a demon of some kind that specializes in children. Sammy's still gone."_

"_July 10, they found a mass grave, it's old, from when the town was founded. Dad called Bobby to help with the hunt, Pastor Jim is coming. I might have found something, I'm going to track it down tonight. Sammy's still gone. I'm going to find him."_

"_July 11, I'm close. Dad and Bobby have gone looking south of town where the other kids were found, but I think they are wrong. I think it will be up at the old graveyard where the mass grave is, something was hunting out there last night, but by the time I got to it, it was gone. Going to find Sammy, no option. He's still gone."_

The handwriting in the next entry was shaky, and again a whole page with only the date and two words. _"Found Sammy." _The longer Sam looked at the page, the more those two words said. Sam stared at it for a long time, remembering the night his brother had found him, tears on his face, wrapping him in a sweatshirt repeating over and over "I've got you, Sammy, you're safe."

The ache in his throat was almost too much.

He picked up another piece from the pile. A card, a get well card in fact, signed in blue crayon. _"And not just blue, Dean, Midnight blue." _Sam flipped through the pages, looking for an entry close to when he'd given his brother the card. _"Sept. 9, Nearly got Sammy killed. Won't happen again. He's okay, I asked the doc to make sure. They said he was fine." _Sam's hand was trembling, he didn't know if it was from fever or remembered emotion. He'd been sixteen when he'd given the card to Dean, joking about the crayon, which he'd found under a table in the hospital cafeteria. His brother was in ICU, had been for what felt like months, and still, his first words after three days of unconsciousness were "You okay, Sammy?"

His heart was pounding and black spots were starting to sparkle at the edge of his vision.

The page facing the September entry was date April 25. _"Sam ran last night. Been expecting it, he and dad have been fighting more than usual. Not the first time, but he's gone this time. I've been looking for 15 hours." _Suddenly they were no longer words on paper, Sam could hear his brother's voice, exhausted, heart-weary. _"I don't even know where to look. Called everyone, he didn't go to a friend. Going to turn around and head south." _There was a coffee stain on the page. _"April 26, still missing, heading to Missoula, it's the next stop on the bus line." _A space separated it from: _"Local cops have a body matching Sam's description, going to ID before calling dad." _Dean's voice was clear now, speaking to Sam from the page. _"Wasn't Sam." _Again, only two words, but Sam could read the relief there, the emotion Dean must have been holding in check. _"April 27, Waitress spotted him in a truck stop." _Sam turned the page. "_He's in Hamilton. Will be there in an hour." _Sam remembered when Dean had walked into the diner where he'd been waiting, Sam stood nervously and Dean, had just pulled Sam against him in a crushing hug. He'd never known how Dean had managed to track him down.

It was getting harder and harder to breathe, his head ached and his eyes were burning. It was hard to hold his head up, and let it drop to the side. He opened a random page in the journal, the small stack of paper forgotten for a moment. There was a drawing of a creature, dark eyes and clawed hands in a human form._"Sept. 27, not sure I'm going to make it this time. It got me good. Wonder if I should call Sam? Want to say goodbye. Sept. 28, getting worse. Wish Sammy were here, he might be able to figure out what's wrong. He always could. Miss him. " _Tears were suddenly burning in Sam's eyes. He read the entry over again, hearing Dean's voice.

"I miss you, Dean," Sam said to the journal.

A sob broke loose, tearing out of him with a physical wrench.

Sam curled around the book, hugging it to his chest and let go, weeping as he clutched the journal.

He had no idea how long he cried, he wept until his eyes were dry and he was exhausted. He rolled onto his back, the book resting on his chest the way Dean had always rested his hand when Sam was sick. "I'm dying," Sam said softly.

"You don't get to die, Sammy," Dean's voice said from the dark shadows where Death was lurking.

"You did," he said bitterly.

"Then fix it."

"What?" he asked.

"The Trickster did it, Sam, find him and make him fix it."

"Can he?"

"You're the geek boy, but if you die, you can't fix anything. We'll figure it out together."

"You're not here, Dean."

"Yeah, I am."

"Yeah, I guess you are," Sam said, tightening his grip on the journal as if it were Dean's hand. He fumbled for his phone and hit the call button, hoping it wasn't too late after all.

"Sam?" Bobby answered on the first ring.

"Need help, Bobby."

"Where are you?"

Sam told him.

"How bad?" Bobby asked, his voice gruff.

"Pretty bad." Consciousness was starting to fade, the fever, the wounds catching up with him.

"Okay, I'll handle it. See you soon."

"Thanks." Sam broke the connection. _He's not going to make it in time. _He picked up the papers and tucked them back in the journal. It took the last of his strength, his body wouldn't respond to any other commands. He managed to get his hand back on the book, needing the contact with Dean.

Somewhere in the distance he heard sirens as Death made its move from out of the shadows.

An antiseptic smell surrounded him when the darkness receded. He opened his eyes. Bobby was beside the bed. "Hey, Bobby," Sam said softly.

"Sam." Relief flooded the older hunter's face.

"Where am I?"

"Where do you think, you idjit?" Bobby grumbled.

"How long?"

"Three days, but you're going to be okay."

"Good. When can I go?"

"What?"

"I'm going to find the Trickster, Bobby."

They released him two days later. Sam was still weak, but determined to start the search for the Trickster, and planning to hunt every evil son of a bitch he could find along the way. "The family business," he'd said to Dean's journal the night before he left the hospital. Bobby had brought the bags and Sam kept the book with him. He was limiting himself to one set of entries a day—Dean seemed to write in spurts, and so Sam only read one a day, hoping to make it last a little longer. He felt a little bad about it until he found the entry dated Sept. 29. _"Still bad. If you find this dad, send it to Sammy, his address at Stanford, his address is PMB Box 3618... Make sure you put in the PMB and street name."_

Sam hit the road the next day. He knew he wouldn't be able to go far for awhile, but he was ready to keep hunting, to find the Trickster and get his brother back. Bobby had followed him for awhile, Sam was aware of the car in the rear-view mirror for several hours, until the older hunter had turned north. That night, before checking into a motel, he stopped and picked up a blank book. He'd never kept a journal before, but now it seemed important, knowing what the presence of Dean's journal meant.

Sam dated his from the beginning of his hunt. _"Day One, I heard about something strange in Omaha, it sounds like it might be a Trickster. Heading that way in the morning, I don't think it's the answer, but it's a start." _

Epilogue

The alarm clicked and music blasted into Sam's brain, he opened his eyes staring at the ceiling, recognition numbing his brain. He sat up and looked to his right.

Dean.

Dean was there.

Dean was there saying something, the words made no sense.

"It's Wednesday?" Sam whispered.

"Yeah, which usually follows Tuesday," Dean said.

Dean.

He was there.

Sam was off the bed before he was even aware he was moving, then next moment he was pulling Dean against him.

Dean, solid, there alive, smelling of toothpaste.

Alive. Dean was alive.

Tears burned in his eyes, but didn't fall.

Sam didn't let Dean out of his sight, by the end of the day, he knew it was driving his brother crazy.

"Can I shower alone?" Dean snapped.

"Dean," Sam said, at a loss, he had no idea how to tell him what happened.

Dean looked at him, that appraising look that seemed to head straight into Sam's soul. His brother held his eyes for a long time, then put his hands on Sam's shoulders. "I'll be okay, Sammy, I'll leave the door open, okay?"

"Yeah," Sam whispered. "Thanks."

"We'll need to talk about this," Dean said softly, giving him a gentle shake, then grabbing his things before heading into the bathroom.

Sam listened until the water came on, then opened his own bag, searching around for clean clothes. His hand came into contact with something at the bottom of his bag.

His journal, the one he'd kept for the six months Dean was dead.

He pulled it out and looked at it, wondering why the Trickster had left it for him. Opening it, he flipped through the pages, remembering where he was when he wrote each entry, some just a log of the hunt, others notes to Dean or responses to something he read in his brother's journal over those long months he was alone.

"Dude, are you going to read all night?" Dean smiled at him and flopped down on the couch in front of the TV. "I bought tequila, beer and chips when we stopped, let's order pizza and watch TV."

"Sounds good," Sam said softly. He carried the book over to the couch and sat down beside his brother, moving until his shoulder was in contact with Dean.

Sam picked up a pen from the table beside the couch and turned to a blank page. _"Dean's home," _he wrote. His brother was quiet. He knew his brother had read what he'd written, and there was nothing but gentle understanding on his face. Dean reached out, closed the book and set it on the table.

Sam looked at the book for a moment, then picked it up and held it out to Dean. His brother met his eyes, giving Sam another long soul-searching look, understanding on his face. He closed his hand over the journal.

"Thank you, Sammy," he said softly.

"No, Dean," Sam said, his voice catching, "thank you."

_**The End**_

_A/N III: There is a little dialog from the episode, owned by Eric Kripke, et al, I mean no infringement of rights._


End file.
